Scrapbook
by deactivated account 999
Summary: ."Six years ago, during that summer between fifth and sixth grade, we got away with a hell of a lot of things." A series of drabbles about the Flynn-Fletcher brothers. Friendship. May get slashy. Now slashy.
1. Scrapbook

**1. Scrapbook.**

Six years ago, at that summer between fifth and sixth grade, we got away with a hell of a lot of things.

Like that rollercoaster. Or the haunted house. Or our backyard beach. Or the time machine or swinter or being one-hit wonders or going to mars or our extraterrestrial friend Meap or everything and anything else we did.

Yes, we were pretty darn hyperactive kids, thanks.

It is nice to think about it now, because six years ago, life seemed pretty much easy and carefree and even though we didn't knew it back then every day we faced life-threatening situations and I still wonder how we didn't got ourselves killed. Or drowned. Or eaten.

Or something.

So I'll try to think about the good ol' times every time I feel like I'm gonna die of embarrassment or stress or work overload or boredom one of this days at high school.

Remember kids, life is so much more fun when you're ten.

Except for the parties, Ferb says.

Okay.

Remember kids, life is so much more fun when you're ten... Except for the parties.

* * *

_Because I've fallen in love with the fandom, this is going to be a series. _

_It's gonna be mostly from Phineas or Ferb's point of view, because writing them at age sixteen is so fun. And besides, I want to keep close to the series' essence, but making it a bit more realistic._

_So far, both that I have written are around 200 words, but I don't know if they all will be, but they will all be Phineas&Ferb friendship, with the possibilities of going a little slashy._

_Ideas and themes for the next drabbles are all welcome. _


	2. Airplanes

**2. Airplanes.**

We're moving to England.

Grandpa Fletcher falls ill and it's the last drop that spills the glass. Suddenly, is as if the universe wants us to move out of this town we've lived in for years. The universe or destiny or karma or any of that superstitious nonsense.

Probabilities are, though, that this would happen sooner or later.

It became obvious when Candace went to University Collage London and Linda got a call from a British record company looking to sign a deal, which triggered Lawrence's midlife crisis which leads us to where we are now.

On an airplane to London.

Chelsea, London. The place where I was born. I cannot say I dislike the idea.

But then I turn to look at Phineas sitting by my side in the window seat and it's hard. It's hard for me to watch him slouch morosely in his seat, shoulders practically touching his ears. It's hard for me to feel happy about moving when I'm watching my brother leave behind the place in which _he_ grew up without complaint because it is what the family wanted.

It's hard for me to understand why Phineas tries to smile and tells me he will be fine. He is not fine.

Today is his sixteenth birthday.

_Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars?  
I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now._


	3. The Talk

**3. The Talk.**

Some years ago, when we were around ten, Ferb and I were heading to the kitchen for our midnight snack and we walked in on an adult movie that our parents were watching in the living room.

It _may_ be disturbing to think about it now, but we didn't know enough yet to be scarred for life or anything like that.

Well, Mom and Dad were mortified. So, after a rather tense moment –they didn't even allow us to go for our peanut butter and jelly sandwich–, and a long silent conversation between the two of them –we were used to those– Dad ended up in charge of giving us _The_ Talk.

At 2.17 a.m.

I can't remember much, since I probably fell asleep at moments –Dad had seem to be relived-, but after a straightforward lecture on the ins and outs of sex, the next morning we tried to figure out the things we hadn't understood. Like the word 'lubricant'.

We didn't even think to ask how a _boy_ and a _girl_ would fit together.

Dad is a practical guy. He always has been.

* * *

_Since this is a drabble series, it means they're not connected at all xD. Sorry if the last two gave the wrong impression. This _may_ have a plot in the future, but right now, short, fun, lifestory-telling, unconnected drabbles make me happy. And besides, I gotta get used to upload periodically._


	4. Rainy

**4. Rainy. **

My favorite weather is when it is cloudy and rainy. I mean, yes, it is actually sort of unpleasant and it is cold, but so am I.

I am more patient.

Phineas, with nothing to look at and nothing to hear and nothing to do, becomes bored within thirty seconds. Twenty-eight seconds, give or take a few.

But in fact, there are plenty of things to do when outside is cloudy and rainy.

I lay on my bed with my eyes closed. The sound of the drops crashing and sliding against and across the rooftop and the glass of the windows is simply exhilarating and relaxing at the same time.

Rain is like a blanket.

But then I find myself being dragged out of my happy place and through the backdoor until I am –_we_ are, Phineas and I– outside on our backyard, the rain soaking through us to the bone and deeper while we chase each other and dance and frolic and generally make fools of ourselves like only silly little eighth graders can on a cloudy and rainy April afternoon.

Later that day, after being scolded by Linda and when we are lying side to side on the couch sharing a real blanket, warm and dry, Phineas says that his favorite weather is when it is rainy and cloudy, too.

I think he means a different kind of rainy.

Rainy but cloudy and unpleasant and cold fits me, but not Phineas. Rainy but sunny and warm and bright and confident kind of weather should be Phineas' favourite weather.

The kind of rainy that leaves a rainbow behind.

* * *

_My favourite so far C: _

_By the way, themes and prompts for the next drabbles are always appreciated._


	5. Burning

**5. Burning.**

"You're smoking."

It took me by surprise.

Mom sent me to look for him and I had been searching like crazy for literally _hours_. It was _that_ day of the year and as usual, Ferb was nowhere to be seen. This time, I really did was worried. He wasn't in the room, nor in the basement, he wasn't in the kitchen or the bathroom or the tree house or Isabella's or Baljeet's or _Mars-_

It was stupid that the last place I thought of looking in was our room.

"You're _smoking_."

I repeated, stating the obvious.

And Ferb –hunched in the window frame, red-eyed and dishelved and stoic and just bloody plain _there_- finally turned and gave me one of those sniffy, annoying 'thanks, Captain evident' stares. It made me go crazy.

"You said you had quit!"

He looked at me in the eyes, and when he spoke, the words burned. "And you said that _human being_ was not going to come anywhere near anymore, Phineas."

I went mad and tried to snatch the little carcinogenic thing out of his fingers, but he was quicker and stronger and he grabbed me by the wrists before I even had the chance to get closer.

"He's my father."

An accusing look, "Lawrence is your _father_."

I pulled away and he freed my wrists. "I know."

"I hate him."

Still lighted up and still burning I saw the cigarette in his fingers, "So do I hate this."

And I took a drag.

His taste lingered on the paper tip and I barely had time to process it before the smoke burned down my throat and my eyes and my nose and I was coughing my lungs out as if my life depended on it because it probably did and once again I wondered what about this did people- did _Ferb_- enjoyed so much- and _oh god_ I just couldn't breathe.

We didn't go back.

Probably chatting awkwardly with Mom, probably clad in tight jeans and unshaved, probably still with stars in his eyes and talking about hitting the road, there was my father there in the living room, two hours a year, and I spent them all up in our room sitting in the window frame, coughing and bawling against Ferb's shoulder, made a complete mess as Ferb rubbed my back in soft circles and whispered how everything was going to be alright until I believed it.

The day after thanksgiving had always been one which burned.

* * *

_The button down there grants three wishes. Sorry for the delay C:_


	6. Ill

**6. Ill.**

In fact, Phineas had never been one for falling ill. Also in fact, whenever Phineas did fell ill, he would get rather... Moody.

Therefore, if you could ever believe the state some time ago he was in, then you would probably be quite amused by the end of this statement. Because _in fact_, yes.

_The_ Phineas Flynn had caught a cold. A rather bad one, also.

The little cute mess of tissue paper and reddish hair stared at me annoyedly from across the room when I threw the medication at him, which he caught with clumsy hands.

"Well," I said, matter-of-factly, "Go on."

About to argue was he, but the words got caught in his throat and he coughed, making me instinctively back away. Germs and virus had always ticked me off insanely.

"It's not gonna kill you or anything," I said, a tad irritated at my brother's impudence.

"…"

"_Now_."

Phineas however, stared at the bottle as if it were some unknown and explosive object from outer space.

"Stop wasting my time," I declared, jumping off the edge of the bed and heading towards the door. "I'm doing this because I _love_ you."

"…Sure," he interjected, his voice wheezing.

I grinned. "You know, you look so bloody cute when you're ill."

"Get out!" Phineas yelled, despite his sore throat. Then he threw a pillow at his _loving_ stepbrother and I immediately whizzed out of sight. But then again, I regretted not giving a better thought at my choice of words since exactly two days later I was coughing and sneezing almost at the same time, tucked in my bed with a 101.5 degrees F. fever.

"Take your medicine," commanded Phineas sarcastically, grinning from ear to ear as he threw some aspirin at me, quite roughly.

I glared at him as best as I could.

"It's because I _love_ you," Phineas stated, his smirk widening.

"Ugh, you!"

And I, well... Touché.

* * *

_I love british swearing. R&R, please :3_


	7. Girls, Part I

_Long hiatus was long. I've been working in an original project, so I guess that's what you would call an excuse._  
_Review plz. This time I will even try to answer all of them c:_

_

* * *

_

**7. Girls – Part I.**

Girls are... Nice, I guess.

They are soft and pretty, they always smell nice, and they only laugh at witty jokes where the use of the brain is involved.

They can also bleed once a month without dying and they can give birth, so I guess that is pretty cool.

But with girls come things like dating, expectations, awkward conversations and having to act cool all the time. Call a girl to ask her for homework and she'll immediately believe you're head over heels for her. And if one asks you out and you tell her you can't because you honestly have something else to do, she'll spend the afternoon with her friends dissecting every single word you said and eventually crying herself to sleep. And if her friends belong to the fireside girls, you will probably have to face threats that involve the possibility of never being able to be a father.

And then the next week she'll ask you out again.

Have a _girl_ who's your _friend _without everyone sooner or later thinking she's your _girlfriend _and you become my instant hero.

Don't get me wrong, you can't live with them, you can't live without them. They're simply different. A good way to kill time, at least.

We haven't actually met a girl our age that's like our mother. Or Candace. Sometimes adorable, mostly… Well, loud. Attention-grabbing.

A girl like Mom or Candace would be a lot of fun.

But then again, even Mom and Candace bore to death in Home Depot, which is probably the closest to heaven I've ever been.

That's why I've got Ferb.


	8. Girls, Part II

**8. Girls – Part II.**

Girls are... Entertaining.

Though bothersome, most of the time. They serve very few purposes. Sex and procreation, and all that.

And I am not planning at least one of those soon in the near future which means that right now, they just… Make noise.

Still, you cannot live with them, you cannot live without them. And they can get kind of fun, sometimes. Or at least, you can get some fun at their… Expenses.

Call a girl to ask her for homework and she will immediately believe you are head over heels for her, and then she will spend the afternoon with her friends dissecting every single word you said and eventually will begin paying more attention to you and generally boosting your ego. The worst you treat them, the more they will love you.

Yes, before you tell me, I know it is wrong to toy with a girl's feelings and all that, but at least, I keep their hopes low. I mean… You know what I mean.

But then again, I dare you to have a _girl_ who's your _friend _without her sooner or later thinking you want her to be your _girlfriend _and you become my instant hero. It is simply not possible.

I have never taken a girl to Home Depot, which is probably the closest to heaven I have ever been. That is reserved only for Phineas. Girls do not get excited at chainsaws and adjustable spanners and electric screwdrivers and pneumatic drills and they do not understand about horsepower. Girls will not love the smell of new house, wet paint and sawdust.

Girls are not as good as Phineas.


	9. People watching

**9. People-Watching.**

One of the few disadvantages living in Danville had, was that everybody knew us. I mean, the tri-state area isn't especially small, but I guess that when you build roller-coasters in your backyard it _is_ asking a bit too much for people not to notice.

(Mom excluded.)

…But I guess you could say that was our fault.

On the other hand, out here, we are strangers. Here there are designer stores, high street shops, exclusive boutiques, trendy pubs, art galleries and independent restaurants, and all the sort of people you can imagine in them. Ferb and I walk through King's Road people-watching.

Chelsea is no small place.

As soon as we had the time to hang out all by ourselves, we began doing it. This people-watching thing. It was unintentional. Unspoken.

(That girl's hair looks so funny. _It is ridiculous._ The lady's glasses are huge. _I wonder if she needs help crossing the street._ Look at that man's pink poodle. _Totally gay._ How do you think that woman tells her baby twins apart? _The kids' lollipops are bigger than their heads._ I like the way she takes her coffee. _Mm. Nice legs._)

_Do you think the people who we people-watch people-watches us? _Ferb whispers in my ear, as we check out the clothes in the shop window of a store we can't afford to even walk in. _It'd be fun_, he continues, as I watch the girls in the store checking us out, _to make them believe we are completely different from whom we really are. We'd be messing with their people-watching._

So we enter the store. I flirt with the cashier girl trying to speak as little as possible, while Ferb asks the price for almost everything in the store. We end up squashed together in the changing room, trying on everything Ferb chose even though we barely have any pound with us.

The room's so tiny I don't know which arm is mine and which isn't anymore. I end up with Ferb's violet plaid shirt on. And my jeans look great on him.

When we pretend we forgot our platinum credit cards at home, the girls believe it.

People-watching is one of the few things I really enjoy since the move. It's just… I'm trying to be positive.


	10. Shaken

**10. Shaken.**

Phineas told me something today.

We were lying on the floor of our room, surrounded by books and half-resolved, pages-long algebra equations shoddily written in loose leaf paper, not really in the mood for homework. Of course we knew the value of x. We knew it ever since we were ten and maybe before that.

Phineas had been very silent all day, and it was puzzling. Until he told me something.

He speaks to me every day, of course. Today, though, he said something _meaningful_, not just the usual chatting or the extrapolation of everything that comes to his mind and not even one of those rare rants of his, but something.

Something heartbreaking.

He said, "How do you…" And here he took a deep breath and rolled over himself, so he was supporting himself on his elbows, looking at me but not really _looking at me_ and he fixed a strand of hair that was falling over his eyes and put it behind his ear and he bit the tip of his propelling pencil before he proceeded. Phineas had to work hard, because talking about a problem makes it hard for him to breath but he said, "How do you keep pushing forward… Even when the world is against you?"

It was the first time I had seen him upset since… A very long time ago.

I blinked at him several times from my spot on the floor, hands behind my head, and told him, "The world can go to hell," (Too long ago, and Phineas gets upset at least four times a day and then _why won't he just show it?)_ "If you are sure that what you feel is right."

It does not matter if Phineas is like a shaken can of soda, just waiting to be opened to explode.

If I am here with him when it happens, it will be okay.

It will be okay.

* * *

_I believe Phineas and Ferb are actually both a bit insecure about themselves. Ferb showing it in the way he always puts himself in the background, Phineas in the way he has to prove a point ten times a day. The only difference is that Ferb tries to affront it positively, while Phineas just bottles it all up inside and ends up getting really hurt. _

…_Or something. Two kids that cheerful have to have some sort of intern debate/trauma. Idk. It may be just my vein for angst/hurt/comfort. What do you think?_


	11. Notice

[Insert Recent Life Story Here.]

Okay, now that you're all caught up with me, let's answer some of your reviews en masse: Yes, no, maybe, thanks-I love me too, only if I want to, and I'll think about it. For everything. In no particular order. Now, if only my email was that easy to answer...

* * *

**11. Notice.**

I've been starting to notice some things about Ferb lately.

Simple, unimportant, mundane things, like the way he wrinkles his nose and smiles when he is reading some doorstop book like War and Peace or The Iliad or Don Quixote and he finds something particularly witty or funny, or that he draws random doodles on any blank surface in front of him when he is on the phone, or the way he breaths in and out very composedly when he is suffering of brain freeze, or how in_freaking_sanely cute he acts when he kneels down to pet a big fluffy dog he runs into walking down the street, or how he presses his forehead to the window of our room when it's raining and silently names the drops that crash against it and makes bets to whom will fall faster, or the fact that he never stirs his caramel frappuccino with his straw to mix the whipped cream and the coffee and the caramel but rather enjoys drinking each one separately.

It's a bit unnerving to process all those details when really, does it really matters whether his knee _is_ or _isn't_ touching that girl's he is talking with? Or mine? Is it really that important how ridiculously attractive he looks running his fingers through his hair when he's confused or how when he laughs there's that tingling thing going on in my stomach? Because there's so much tingling a guy can take, really.

And by 'starting to notice some things about Ferb lately' I mean that _lately_ I've been starting to notice I _notice_ some things about Ferb. Since when I notice I just don't know, the timeline is a bit blurry.

I mean, it _feels_ like I've been noticing lately since I just noticed I notice, but come to think of it, I think I've been noticing for a quite some time now, it's just that I didn't noticed I notice.

The difference between noticing and noticing to notice is a little too big because now I noticed I notice and thinking so much about Ferb is making my head spin.

But it's not like it is all that unpleasant.

Except when I notice that I noticed that I'm noticing that his knee _is_ touching that girl's and _isn't_ touching mine and the tingling is getting heavier by the second 'till I'm beginning to feel sick and I excuse myself and he's not laughing anymore and it only makes it worst.

Sometimes there are some things that is better not to notice.

* * *

Have you hugged you clueless Phineas TODAY?

Bleh, I like torturing Phineas so much and it probably makes me a bad person. The good news are that I like Hurt/Comfort so much, that I torture Phineas to comfort him later, which should be a good reason to torture him, and so that makes me a not-so-bad person in some twisted, odd way.

Anyway, remember the summary, when I said 'May get slashy?'. Yeah. It sort of starts getting slashy. Here. At this point.

So, yeah. Review.


	12. Separation

**12. Separation.**

We are playing _Sky Castles_, which is a game Phineas and I came up with when we were around twelve.

Of course, the games we came up with had nothing to do with bizarre mixes of Marco Polo and Tag – they were not something regular twelve year olds would come up with.

We find our old gear in a box in the attic. In the real world, we are laying side by side on my bed, devices that resemble of wired-up headphones attached to our temples, eyes closed, pupils moving as fast as in a REM cycle.

In the shared interface of our minds, we are in a fantasy world.

The bridge I walk over looks as unsafe as it probably is. If I fall, a lake of languid, lava-like creatures awaits for me under a forty feet fall. Over me, the sky is gray, all around, the ground is black, flat, dead; little threads of glowing orange cracking the surface. The wind is eerily quiet, but there is thunder in the distance. I can't even remember designing this level.

As I adjust my armour, a delicately carved symbol surfaces over the place where my heart is, indicating no lives left. It sinks into the armour a moment after it comes up, the metal as smooth as it was before.

The gate to the next level is at the end of the bridge. After what seems a mile long walk over decayed, wobbling planks, I cross the light halo.

Suddenly, I am falling.

Suddenly I am staring right into a sky so blue it _has_ to be digital and the clouds are not as soft as they look as I precipitate through them and their white, cotton-like shapes do nothing to brake my free fall and suddenly I am panicking, trying to brace myself into anything solid but there is nothing and then there are green blurs instead of clouds and suddenly I remember this level, suddenly I remember the wings on the heels of my armour and suddenlysuddenly_suddenly_ I remember what I'm supposed to do and I jump and everything is still blurry but I am advancing in the opposite direction, I am going up, up, up until I can see the sun reflecting brightly on the surface of the glass capsule I've been looking for for the last twelve levels, little gold trimmings around the lower part, nothing around or under but thin air.

The last three floating tiny island of green grass are in front of it, like royal steps, and Phineas smiles when he sees me approaching.

"I've been waiting for you," He mouths, a pale hand coming to rest on the inside of the glass capsule. I place mine over his, on the other side. It's cold.

"I hate this game," I tell him, and he laughs. I wish I could hear him.

"I know."

The glass shatters and I rescue him and we win the game.

* * *

_I've been writing another Phineas/Ferb fic. It's called 'Alive with the Glory of Love', mostly because that's what I was listening to when I wrote it. Please go check it out. Btw, I love reviews._


	13. Hair

**Warnings:** Oh, the UST.

* * *

**13. Hair.**

Ferb's hair sucks.

I mean, I _know_ most girls would disagree with me, don't even start— I know how they think it makes him look like a sex god when he brushes it out of his eyes and runs his fingers through it in semi-slow motion, how it shines in the sunlight and blows in the wind like if he were some dude out of a cheap paperback chick-porn pirates pseudo-seventeen century novel.

…Don't tell Ferb I said that, by the way.

The truth is, his hair does _is_ nice, like when he's asleep and it sticks to his forehead or when he pulls at it absentmindedly during a math test or specially like when he wakes up and he has the worst of the bedheads and it makes him look _so_— um, so yeah. Eh. My point, though, is that when you're past the point where you spend half your mid-time job's monthly salary in four different shades of _Atomic Lemonade Green_ (words on the hair dye box, not mine) ever since you've been thirteen, then yeah, your hair could probably be described as "healthy" if the definition of the word was altered to read something along the lines of "hair which hold no life whatsoever, has a propensity of tangling and is damaged in a number of ways too numerous to mention."

Tonight he steps out of the shower and his hair is at its worst. He just lets it dry in the air, sitting next to me on the floor of our room, in front of our small old-fashioned TV, little drops of water dripping down his neck and soaking his shirt and what kind of person does not finds that very, very uncomfortable? So I just can't stand it and I grab a freaking comb and stump over on my knees. At first he tries to ignore me like he always does when I bitch about his hair, until I pull the comb through a particularly tangled knot and he winces at the same time I hear Amanda scream in one of those _Invasion of the Human Overlord_ movies we never really get tired of watching so I can't help but smirk.

Ferb glowers when I kneel in front of him, blocking his view of the TV, but it's also probably because I say, "If it hurts you should tell me." So of course he toughens up, his mouth a tight line and he's just staring straight ahead and I know I should feel self-conscious because my PJs go sort of see-through when seen against the glow of the TV but I can't bring myself to care when I'm feeling kind of smug. "Really." I reassure him, intending to mock him, but it comes out a little breathless when he places his hands on my waist and squeezes, probably steadying himself because I'm being rather harsh with the comb.

"There," I finish and drop the comb aside, not being able to help running my fingers through the now soft strands. He exhales very slowly as the tension drains out of his shoulders and his breath crashes against my collarbone, and it feels kind of really nice when his hands smooth up and down my sides.

"Thanks." He bites back, his hands leaving my waist the moment mine leave his hair.

For a moment I'm not sure what to do with my hands, so I sit back again on the floor, glancing at the TV and realizing the credits have been rolling for quite some time now. "Are you ever going to wear your hair brown again?" I ask, because I sincerely can't think of anything else to say.

Ferb raises an eyebrow at the screen. "When hell freezes over."

* * *

_Alive with the Glory of Love_ is a little stuck because it's got no plan whatsoever and I'm sort of writing as I go along. Any suggestions?


End file.
